


i want to find something i’ve wanted all along

by doctormissy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 04, Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Hannibal Loves Will, Injury Recovery, Love Confessions, M/M, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Post-Season/Series 03, Running Away, Will Loves Hannibal, other characters to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:14:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8226446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormissy/pseuds/doctormissy
Summary: Will and Hannibal, by miracle, survived the fall. But what do they do now, when everyone is after them? They run. And they have to sort things out.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I expect it to be long. I consider this thing as my version of things that happened after the fall and season 4. I have it all outlined, but I don't have much time for writing, so I won't update very fast, apologies for that. I'll try though. 
> 
> Title from Linkin Park's 'Somewhere I Belong'. Listen to it. It's so Hannigram.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is sth like a pre-credit scene, if you imagine the work as episode(s). it's happy and fluffy - but the rest won't be. all mistakes are mine.

The room was slowly becoming lit up by the first of the morning’s sunrays penetrating through the velvety fabric of the closed curtains. 

The light was warm, pleasant, inviting, wanting the people living down on the earth to open their locked eyes and enjoy the beauty of yet another sunny, summer day. 

Nothing but placid, slow breathing of the two figures sleeping beneath the beige duvets filled the otherwise silent bedroom – until one of said persons shifted and rolled on his side to face the other and watch him sleep. 

The man smiled wearily, tracing the the other’s relaxed body with his no longer sleepy gaze. That was one sight to fully awake a person. 

He adored the way the crumpled sheets, the man’s lightly tanned skin, every each of his muscles, every single one of those straw-coloured hair falling in his face loosely glowed, bathed in the morning sunlight.

 

And sometimes, he very well still doubted this was reality and not some kind of an absurd dream that would turn into a nightmare and leave him in a sweat, panting. 

He couldn’t believe this was what he had now – for almost two years since the fall—or jump, rather—that this was what his life truly looked like. Content. Happy. Full of loving and knowing that he was loved, however ridiculous would the thought seem to be few years back. And occasional murder of someone who really had it coming for they dared to interfere with their perfect life and cause trouble.

Or, in case they had been recognised, getting rid of the witness was rather necessary as well. It was simple. Leave no one and nothing behind. Leave no potential testifiers who could bear witness against their case. Change the place of their stay with immediate action. It did happen.

But this, this house, have been theirs for several months now, and they could live in relative peace in the heart of Vienna, unnoticed and hidden amongst the million and a half of ordinary Austrians. 

 

There might have been sadness in his eyes, provoked by the retrospective thoughts mixed with utter felicity he could never get enough of, though his smile even widened as he saw the other’s mouth twitch in even, if unintentional, beam. The man in question knew he was awake for the whole time, ogling him as the first time. 

“Hello, Will.” Hannibal opened one of his eyes to steal a quick glimpse of his favourite view – his love, his _creation_ lying beside him in his worn grey t-shirt and having curls of his beautiful mop of hair hanging over his face, unorganised. No glasses. No shields. No secrets.

“Hello, Hannibal,” Will replied, voice still raspy with the last remnants of sleep. He added, “Good morning.” Then, he shifted closer to his lover for a goo-morning kiss. Just a simple, loving, gentle press of lips on lips, nothing more.

Hannibal’s eyes were closed again. Then, he lifted both eyelids, viewing William’s body. And hearing his stomach rumble. 

“Shall I cook us breakfast?” Hannibal asked politely, although knowing he would have to make it anyway, since it was his turn with meals today. 

Not that he wasn’t fond of Will’s toasts with butter and cheese, occasionally strawberry jam (home-made by Hannibal himself, thank you very much), or eggs with bacon or sausages (normal, _pork_ ones) – but it needed equilibrium of tastes, of perfect, complicated breakfasts and French cuisine and the rustic, common American food Will always served them. 

 

He said he wanted Will to be his equal – and he truly _was_. Hannibal always kept his promises. He would never ask will to do something he wouldn’t do, and vice versa. Their entire relationship was built on equality, trust, boundaries that ought to be crossed and must have never been, and attempts to level off in the normal world, even with all of their eccentricities and urges. 

They had to be ordinary if they did not wish to be caught. Wear ordinary clothes. Have a job, part-time at least. Speak German when outside. And be one hell of thorough when the beasts were released and bathed in blood blackened in the moonlight. 

And what concerned the ‘normal world’, they divided all tasks, housework, hunts, preys in two. They took turns in everything, be it cooking, cleaning, shopping, or sex. That was the only way of reaching the absolute equality.

 

“Sure,” Will answered and leant in for yet another kiss before he sat up, put his spectacles on, and got up to take a shower. “I can’t wait!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooner than expected. I was wrong, clearly, I am gonna update not so slow (at the expanse of my other works), but the chapters are gonna be short.  
> we go back to the fall in this one.

**two years earlier**

Cold and sharp air flew round them as they fell. It was hard and biting, blended with the stinging pain in Hannibal’s stomach and Will’s cheek and breast. 

Killing the Red Dragon, they were in some sort of trance, not fully conscious of either the pain or their ruthless actions. Actions of pure rush and instincts. And Will – he must have clearly been out of his mind, pushing them over the—

Splash.

There was an impact. Sharp needles of the briny pricking their skin, alongside the ever poetical but currently quite literal salt in the wounds. And then only blackness.

 _That is then end then,_ Will thought before his mind slipped, and he began to sink to the inevitable bottom, still in the embrace of Hannibal’s arms. _The lamb has arisen and vanquished the dragon only to fall again, and this time for good._

 

Pain. There was almost unbearable pain in all of his body. And coldness. Water. It was so cold and dark.

Will has awoken with several coughs that got the last of the seawater out of his lungs. He could not open his eyes just yet, but he was glad he wasn’t able to see. Was this what hell felt like? He did not want to see.

No, no. He felt too miserable to be dead. His cheek hurt too much, and hell surely hasn’t been so fucking _cold_. Somehow, he managed to survive. But what about—

Hannibal. Will realised that he must have been the one to save his life – for how many times it was now? – and drag his out of the water- where?

Despite the smarting and all he had felt – he was lying on something hard, and something pleasantly warm lingered on his arms –, Will attempted to open his eyes, gradually.

He did not know what he had expected, but it certainly hadn’t been the face of the Chesapeake Ripper hovering inches above his own. 

“Will!” the man whispered. He was weak and injured himself, and yet he could haul Will’s body out of the water—“Will, you’re awake, good. Now we must move on, the FBI are after us. Can you get up and walk on your own?”

His eyes drank in Will’s face and looked directly in his eye, searching for sings of concussion – or any agreement. Or disagreement, for that matter.

Will wasn’t sure what to think. His mind was rather full of mixed feelings and uncertainty. He felt he needed to scream. He felt he needed to get up and run away with Hannibal, as far as possible. He felt he needed to die and leave the world behind, because it hurt oh so much—even more when he realised he lay on a rock somewhere, hard, sharp projections digging into the flesh of his back and legs. He felt he needed to stay there, make Hannibal lie down next to him, and stargaze together, in sheer piece. He felt he needed to help them both. 

But he also felt he needed to run as far as possible from Hannibal, leave the man right there, and let Jack Crawford catch him once and for all, sending him to jail where he was out of everyone’s way. Especially Alana and Margot’s. 

He even thought about killing him with his bare hands, right on the spot. He had an excellent, one-time opportunity. But he also thought about grabbing his face and pulling him down for a long, desired and forbidden kiss.

He did not know, he did not know, he did not—

“Yes, I can,” he answered mechanically, without further musing. His own voice sounded weird. Low, raspy, dry. “I guess.”

And he really wasn’t sure if he could, but it happened to be the best option at the moment. The only option.

Therefore, he tried.

Hannibal stepped aside from him, but only far enough to still be able to help him get up or carry him even. Will sat up first, slowly. There was a throbbing ache in both the cheek and chest, his muscles were strained and as if burning. He began to shiver immediately as his skin and damp clothes touched the air above. 

He—they—really needed to dump the garments at once and get clean, dry, and warmer ones. 

“Come on, Will, we have to go,” Hannibal tried to prod him to go, but gently. He offered him a helping hand, and Will took it. 

As he helped Will to stand up, the older man hissed with pain. He had to hold him wounded stomach. Oh my god, how was he even standing? He’s been fucking shot!

It was actually a miracle they had survived and hadn’t bled to death in the Atlantic. 

“Aaarrgh,” Will groaned out when he stood on his tremulous feet at last. He was so stiff – and his knees buckled under the touch of Hannibal’s arms reaching to enfold his shaken partner in crime.

“Shhh, Will. We will take care of our wounds and dispose of these clothes the very first chance we get, but now we have to go.” As if he were reading Will’s mind.

Hannibal held him in his arms as he at the top of the cliff before. 

They held each other. They caressed each other. They supported each other. It _was_ beautiful. 

And there were police sirens and blue lights already, the annoying and oppressing sound echoing from the distance, the lights giving the darkness of the night a neon-blue tinge. 

Both shaken and quivering, they set forth into the future. Together. 

“I know a cabin in the woods less than two miles from here, there we can get fresh apparel and everything else we require for our journey to freedom,” Hannibal explained, never losing his usual wits. 

Will did not even bother to question what exactly reaching the desired shelter and obtaining everything they needed, as Hannibal said, would require. That was the least of his concerns. 

“For freedom,” he averred. 

Hannibal repeated, “For freedom.” And then he added, more quietly, “For love.”

Will could of course hear that – but his feelings no longer needed to concealed. Will was his equal. He knew, and Hannibal knew he knew. He understood. And he might be able to requite the affections. 

Hannibal smiled, though it meant the terrible ache in his stomach has increased.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still keep it short, only in order to keep updating. A bit later, because I have too many things to write, to do, and to watch.

Their arms were round each other’s shoulders. They barely plodded. They could see nothing. But the sounds of the sirens made them keep going and hold pace. And they were close. 

They were quivering all over. They weren’t allowed to make a sound, or the special forces would find and capture them again; the same old story would be bound to repeat. 

The police and the Bureau were after them, searching every nook and cranny of the adjacent woods with the help of trained dogs and the light of big torches that shone like lighthouses at the coast. But they weren’t navigating ships; they were navigating soldiers and leading them closer to the duo.

Steps and crackle of fallen leaves and branches being stepped on resounded from afar—all around them—keeping them vigilant. 

Yet Will and Hannibal were all but terrified, as the sight of a small, wooden cabin (the absurd irony of the situation noted), standing proudly in the middle of a clearing, greeted them at last.

“Here we are, Will,” whispered Hannibal in the younger’s ear. The touch of his breath sent electrifying shivers down his spine. “This is our way to freedom.” 

Will did not even have the strength to respond. Deep inside, he knew he was thrilled yet apprehensive. And he was pretty sure his heartbeat could be heard kilometres far.

They quickened their pace, walking as fast as only possible in their wretched condition. Mere metres separated them from the sanctuary of a closed door.

The house – if it were to be called house at all – was not large, but certainly sufficient to their needs. Two rooms, bathroom, kitchen – as Hannibal told Will on their way. Four windows. One door. Few possible weapons in the form of knifes and a hunting shotgun. Some clothes and canned food. Hannibal also claimed it to be long abandoned, and it seemed so. There even stood an old car, if a bit rusty and in need of few gallons of petrol.

Promising, so far. The odds were in their favour, so far. 

As if the universe itself wanted them to run together and be together—

_It’s way too suspicious how smooth our way from the ocean was,_ Will thought. It was indeed. Something was about to happen yet. And he feared what. 

He had an idea or two. 

He dared not to speak about it for he was afraid it would come true if he did. 

And not that he’d have a choice, because Hannibal was the first to not only acknowledge the potential danger thickening the air and creeping into the back of his experienced mind, but also to stop and sharpen his senses all of a sudden.

A press of hand a little harder caused Will to come to a halt. He ceased to breathe too, in order to hear better. There wasn’t just the distant barking and orders being shouted in the radios. 

Something shifted inside the cabin. Wood creaked. The floor. 

Hannibal raised his free hand and pressed a finger against Will’s lips. He recognised the source of the sound immediately. “Shhh,” he murmured, “someone’s inside. The FBI, I dare to presume.” 

The man somehow managed to preserve his tranquillity and matter-of-factness even in a state of affairs such as the current. Some of his moves didn’t cease to amaze and fascinate Will – he knew so little about the man next to him – and wanted to know more.

 

Hannibal Lecter was an unsolved mystery, a mesh of unpredictability and drama and theatricality and sense of the aesthetic and intricacy and passion for culinary arts and grandiose murders in a very-well tailored person suit – he mustn’t omit metaphors either – and Will was obdurate to unveil the mystery. He wanted to know him. He wanted him to let him close, let him peek behind his armour. 

He had to. Because they survived. 

_But probably not for long._ Of course it had to creep into his mind.

 

They knew they’d go and seek shelter in that particular cabin. Of course. There were no other option, really. Will has worked for the FBI – he’s never quit, in fact – he knew them and all of their methods; they knew him and Hannibal. They had learnt from him. 

_What would I do if I were them?_ That was the question Will asked himself, and also the question the agents asked as they tried to identify with the minds of serial killers on the run, just like Will did so. 

Only now he was the killer. This time for real. And regretted nothing.

 

_I calculate the probability of survival. I send the force to search all dwellings or possible shelters within few miles, because if Graham and Lecter had survived, they aren’t able to get far, given the wounds they undoubtedly must have suffered during the fight and overpowering of the Red Dragon and the time that passed since the act. They are in very bad shape, barely standing. I tell the soldiers to hide in all habitations corresponding with the calculations. I tell them to wait until Graham and Lecter arrive. I tell them to attack and bring them in, alive. We need them out of the way, possibly with a death sentence._

Putting himself in the position of a soldier or agent was no more demanding than getting empathising with a psychopathic murderer. Easier, actually. In some regards.

 

Will whispered back, “Exactly. They’re after us. They know we’re here.” He put all efforts into making no sound, not even a rustle of leaves beneath his feet. He continued to think aloud. “We have two options. Either we continue on our way and bleed and freeze to death, or we go inside, fight, and try to win, risking being overwhelmed and caught.” 

Both alternatives were more than unfavourable for them. Nonetheless, they had to choose, and they better did it quickly. Standing in one place was the worst of all alternatives.

“I suggest we opt for the latter, our chances are still better. And if they do catch us,” Hannibal looked at Will, “at least we will be in prison together.”

“But we have no weapons.”

“The kitchen offers great potential.”

“We barely stand, Hannibal. Do you really think trying to _fight_ is a good idea?”

“It was yours.”

“And I already regret it. But I guess we have to try. We have nothing to lose anyway. What do you propose?”

“I would say we sneak up to the door as quietly as we can, kick it open to divert the men’s attention, head for the kitchen that’s right on the left, grab a knife and the old shotgun, and defend ourselves till the bitter end.”

“Till some of us drop dead, whoever it might be.”

“Yes,” nodded Hannibal lightly, breaking the eye contact. He pointed his eyes at the cabin. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Hannibal smiled, as if he revelled in the status quo, looked forward to have the pleasure of ending more lives he considered expendable, bathed in the thoughts of Will participating in the act, over and over again. 

He reached for Will’s cheek. His touch was cold but vibrant; Will felt like trembling even more. He took a deep breath. He was afraid.

The palm of Hannibal’s hand stroked the hair on the back of his neck, almost lovingly. He was in fact careful not to hurt Will, not to touch his wounds. He tried to be gentle. He saved his life – again. He supported him. He looked at him with such adoration yet devouringly. And Will knew he wanted to experience more of that attention that was more pleasant than unpleasant with every day.

The smile on Hannibal’s face widened, but in his eyes, it was evident that it hurt. He lowered the hand. It rested on Will’s shoulder. He didn’t give him a kiss. 

“Come on, Will. Towards our fate.”

“May it end up the way it ought to end up.”


	4. Chapter 4

Will kicked the door open with one swift smash. Unlike Hannibal, he still had some utilisable strength in his legs. Enough to tear the piece of wood out of its hinges. 

His breathing was fast, heart pulsating in his chest. Salty drops of seawater fell in cold drops on his sweaty forehead.

The door fell on the floor with the cracking, striking one agent armed with a rifle in the head. The man couldn’t possibly be conscious after such heavy impact. That was one man down. And as both Will and Hannibal registered, there still were three fully armed FBI agents ready to get them standing right behind the front door.

They really were nothing more than cattle to be slaughtered comfortably, in their state and position. 

Yet, the falling door that pinned their colleague to the ground did provide them with those two seconds of priceless diversion, and they, albeit wretched and prostrate, flown to the first room on the left. Hannibal punched the man closest to him and attempted to knock the gun out of his hands. Unsuccessfully. It was a vain and pointless try.

But something was still better than nothing. 

All guns turned to them, pointing at their heads and chests. “Put your hands up in the air! Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, you are apprehended!” yelled one of them. They didn’t know who exactly. It was all a bit smudgy. 

They did not pay attention to the orders. Will dashed into the kitchen as the second. He kicked the door closed, for a change. The thin layer of wood did not offer much protection against flying bullets, but he counted on the fact the Bureau wanted them alive. 

He turned round, hoping for a key in the lock. He saw nothing, so he had to find it by touch. Luckily, it was there. Thanks to the meaningless small object, they had at least few seconds to their credit. It was all so good. Unbelievably good, almost. 

Everything felt so unreal, slow. As if the whole world was in slow motion. The avidity was back, drowning the tiredness, pain, and exhaustion completely. 

Hannibal looked round himself. He laid eyes on the knife holder at once, grabbing two of the biggest blades it held. “The shotgun is in one of the bottom cupboards,” he informed Will, brief. There was no time for conversation, nor the inclination to so.

His eyes sparked with hunger and excitement. As if bringing down the Red Dragon weren’t enough. As if the rapture haven’t been all gone yet and he was thrilled to take more lives and seize more souls with Will by his side in another act of passion. Resolution. 

Hannibal didn’t specify which cupboard, therefore Will opened all of them until he found it in the back of one in the middle. The force he put into it almost ripped the decrepit doors off. 

Will checked whether the gun was loaded, and when he assured himself there were enough cartridges in the magazine, he gripped it firmly. He looked at Hannibal, seeking incentive to take action. 

Only moonlight allowed him to see the other man. To continue seeing the beauty of what they had. Of what they’ve been. 

They didn’t have a real chance of winning and they both were aware of that. They were badly wounded. Weak. Outnumbered. But as Will said, trying to fight was their only option. 

Shouts and banging was to be heard from the hallway – the agents were undoubtedly getting ready to destroy the door and burst into the kitchen, using actual violence this time. According to their policy, that was all that could be applied to serial killers on the run.

But then again, it _was_ true.

Also, the fourth one was standing on his feet again, as there were four different voices and too many footsteps.

Hannibal nodded, looking Will in the eye. He girded himself for the attack, knives ready in his (shaking) hands. 

The air round them was thick and smelling of wood, dust, and a remote metallic scent of blood, mixed with the typical seaweed smell inseparable from the ocean.

Will ran to the door. He unlocked it in one quick move and swung it open. He barely saw one of Hannibal’s knives fly past his face and sink into a man’s arm. He dropped his rifle, but managed to shoot the wall few centimetres from Hannibal. It was a very close one.

The FBI wouldn’t shoot, and Will and Hannibal knew that. It was their only advantage. 

Will, whereas, had absolutely no problem with so, after what he had done. After they had done with Hannibal. The agents wore bulletproof vests – and if they wanted to get out of there, they had to kill them.

Hannibal stood in the doorway, grinning wickedly. He enjoyed it. _Come at me, boys,_ as if he were saying. _Let’s see how is this going to turn out. Who is the winner of this deadly game._

Will stepped forward and pulled the trigger. He winced as the bullet escaped the barrel, emitting a very loud _bang_. Louder than a pistol did. 

The bullet embedded itself in the nearest man’s forehead. Blood and brains spurted out of his head, staining a cupboard and spraying itself on another man’s face. He wiped it with one gloved hand, surprised but not shocked. It was evident he wanted to mourn his dead colleague – friend, perhaps – but there was no time. So much he disdained Will, Hannibal, and their sort. 

Will quickly turned to him so he got a cleaner shot and killed him before damage too serious was caused – but to both his and Hannibal’s surprise, the men fired back. 

The real fight for survival has begun. 

The agent with the knife in his arm pulled it out, despite the fundamental knowledge of not doing so. He growled and angrily walked toward Hannibal, who was taken up with stabbing the last agent in the vest-protected chest repeatedly, whilst said man attempted to kick him in the wounded belly and stab him at the same time. 

He was stronger than Hannibal. Much stronger. And he has been through a lot, as his avid eyes revealed. 

Hannibal wailed as the man’s knee bumped into his gut. It was terrifying. Terrible to hear. Seeing and hearing Hannibal Lecter, the embodiment of power, control, and _self_ -control so vulnerable pained Will as much as the knife wounds themselves. 

His muscles tautened and a flood of rage and adrenaline rushed in his veins. He shot the man in the side and back twice, then he turned back to the one who was firing at him. He did not care about the bullets; he knew he’d dodge them. The reactions were purely automatic, driven by the instincts of a seasoned killer Will was slowly becoming. 

The agent yelped. He didn’t ease up on Hannibal, though.

“Will, aim on the legs,” Hannibal panted. He blocked his assault with his forearm and managed to punch him in the chin, hard. 

Will did as he was told. He fired at the man’s right knee and left calf. He kept moving to avoid being hit. He turned few degrees left to take a shot at one of his opponents. He so-so evaded one bullet, while another scraped his side, right under the ribs. He did not pay attention to the sudden increase of pain; all that mattered was survival. 

Red stain spreading across the fabric of Will’s white shirt and the stinging only added to the wrath building up in him. He gritted his teeth and threw himself at the agent. Or, more precisely, ran up to him speedily and angrily, pressed the gun barrel against the vest covering his torso, and pulled the trigger. 

Even a bulletproof vest was no good to him now, being shot from such close proximity. He screamed as the bullet penetrated his body, and it was beautiful.

He collapsed on the floor coughing up blood. 

Focusing on that particular man, Will completely missed that the last person ceased to shoot and exclaimed orders and information into his radio instead. He was calling for backup. They will come. It was too late. 

Nevertheless, bringing that man down was deeply satisfying, if nothing else. Hearing the radio fall on the hard floor and shatter in pieces of plastic and circuitry was even better.

There was only one adversary left – and he was giving Hannibal a hard time. Hannibal’s lip and left eyebrow was bleeding, the shot wound likewise. His arm was scratched by the sharp blade, jumper split. Although the agent was in no better shape after a stab, two shots, and several punches and kicks, he would have actually beaten and maybe even murdered Hannibal, had Will not taken action and stepped in, bashing him in the head with the recoil pad. 

He wasn’t dead, only unconscious. And that presented a problem. 

“Do you want to have the honour?” asked Hannibal. He _desired_ Will to do it, but—

“He is yours, Hannibal. This is an outcome of an act of collaboration. Wouldn’t be fair if I took all the credit, would it?” Will replied solemnly. But the truth was that killing three people – four, if he counted the Dragon – was enough of an ordeal for a very long time. Will couldn’t be and is never going to be transformed to Hannibal’s image completely – he would never be as strong and relentless as him, or as bestial. 

“No, that it wouldn’t.”

Hannibal collected one of the knives that flew off somewhere in the centre of the hall during the fight. He went back to the last man alive and kneeled above him, victorious – but weary. He slit his throat open and watched the blood gush out of it. 

“Now let’s get out of here,” whispered Hannibal. They did not have much time before the backup arrives. “Take as many supplies and clothes you can. Also some means of defence. We’ll take the car.”

Will still was in shock. They won. They were alive. They defeated the trained agents, even with all of their injuries. 

That was a miracle.

He dropped the shotgun on the floor, exhausted. Only now he fully realised the pain and the bleeding. And the fact Hannibal was too weak to even stand up. 

The immediate reaction was to help him up on his feet, and so he did it. He made sure he could stand and, most importantly, walk. Only then, he could leave him and go back to the kitchen to take those few cans of meat and vegetables he found while looking for the gun. 

True hell is going to come in next few days. If they survive that—well, then they can start to believe they can make it.

But mostly because Hannibal _never_ ate canned food, and it’s going to be _torture_ to get him eat cold pork loins with peas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if it's realistic. I don't know if they'd do that, if they could win. I don't know. It just seemed right, and I have no idea how long it would be and how they would get out of it if I'd let the FBI catch them, which was my original intention. More plausible, you know. But then I wrote it this way. Nothing's guaranteed though ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update, but I have to say this one's longer, and I had lots of other work to do. well, it took me three days to write it, actually, but I started late, so...

The road was dark, void, silent, and long. God, so long. But God was not down there to help them; he was sitting on his hypothetical cloud and looking at them from beyond, finding delight in the pain and suffering he inflicted upon his creations.

 

Hannibal was driving the old Ford, one-handed. He held his stomach with the other. He pushed the car to the maximum speed, but even going at 125 miles per hour would not be enough to escape all the darkness they have left behind, that has accompanied every each of their moves forever, that they were yet to face. 

There also was the FBI, police, and armed forces chasing after them as though they were huntsmen and the two men were foxes destined to be caught in the open season. 

Their only advantage was Hannibal’s perfect knowledge of the area and all places they could take shelter for twenty minutes in order to change and at least sterilise the wounds and take care of the bleeding. Then they would head towards Will’s former home in Wolf Trap, where the old boat he had sailed to Italy swung on the waves of the lake, intact.

And then there were the wounds and the coldness clutching to the very core of their trembling bodies. The blood did not cease to run out of the wound, if slowly. The seat covers and their clothes – Hannibal’s old and Will’s fresh – were soaked with the red liquid. 

There was no time to dress the wounds properly. Yet. The only thing Will could do was to disinfect the stab wounds, plaster the shoulder, and press a handkerchief on the cheek.

 

With every move requiring movement of the abdominal muscles, as small it might have been, Hannibal twitched. He was close to actually moaning, but his self-esteem and extremely high ability of being in control over each of his steps and words wouldn’t let him. He had enough dignity still. 

Will was in no better shape, but he couldn’t watch that anymore. “Pull over, Hannibal. Let me take care of the shot wound before you pass out and never wake up again,” he insisted. His own voice was weak.

“I assure you, Will, that I have endured much worse situations than a shot wound.” He spoke quietly and almost stuttered. 

Will’s gaze fell on the rear-view mirror. There were no blue lights. They did have some time. “Furthermore, I thought you wished for both of us to cross the Great Divide and never see the lights of the world again.”

Hannibal’s eyes never left the road in front of them. 

Will said nothing, thinking of the right response. There was nothing much to say about that. 

 

He realised he did wish so in that instant. It seemed to have been the easiest choice to dive into the waves of the ocean, his safe haven, and let it decide their fate. It was so easy to let all go, reconcile with the vision of his life’s ending in the arms of the man he finally understood, embraced, admitted he felt a strong bond to. If it ended, it was in peace. If it didn’t, they were together. 

But if only one of them survived…

“Yet, here we are,” he replied. “I won’t let you die now, Hannibal. I’m in no shape to drive, so I need someone who will take me to safety, and you are the only one available.” Will couldn’t refrain from a silent snort, despite the tone of his voice was serious.  
The corner of Hannibal’s mouth unconsciously rose in a smile. 

“Is that the only reason for why am I still alive? I lived under the conviction you have forgiven me, and yourself, for the deeds of our past and only live in the present; I thought you have found comprehension,” teased Hannibal. Though, his voice was getting weaker with every spoken word. All he did but for letting Will help him was drawing the life force out of his solid form. 

Will pressed a piece of cloth to his cheek harder. It helped to stop the bleeding, even if it was all red and soaked wet by now. 

The wound required suturing, three stitches at least.

“I have.” There was nothing more to say. He kept observing the reflection in the mirror. He wasn’t in the mood to lead philosophical conversations about their mutual relationship or bickering right now. He cut that train of thoughts before it went too far. 

Yet, irony was probably the sole concept that eased off the dense atmosphere inside the vehicle and made them forget about the horrors they were going through since their lives crossed paths for a minimum of few moments. 

“Come on, Hannibal, you know I love you.”

 

Will did not exactly think twice about the confession slipping out his mouth. He has, in fact, never thought about what might or might not be true, or right. He has never admitted it to himself, not at Bedelia’s home, not at the BSHCI. Not until the Red Dragon. 

It felt right standing at the top of the cliff, as it felt right now. It just happened.

 

He turned to the man on the driver’s seat. He didn’t give him space to react, for the truth was way too painful and he didn’t want to hear his response. “And that’s why I won’t let you fucking die. Pull over. That’s an order.”

Will smiled again, and it turned into genuine laughter soon. That kind of laughter the butterflies in Hannibal’s stomach fluttered when hearing. 

The matter of wanting to kill first Hannibal and the the both of them seemed to be forgotten. 

When their eyes met, Will could see Hannibal’s were full of agony, but also sparkling with so many emotions at once – understanding, awareness, admiration, joy, desire, love, equal feelings – and he said nothing. The silence was paralysing. 

And when he did what Will told him to and parked the car at the edge of the road, the engine’s roaring stopped, and the air was filled with just their heavy breathing, it became more insupportable. 

 

Hannibal leant closer in the space between the two seats. He took Will’s free hand in his and pressed a light kiss on his knuckles, receiving no objections at all from the man. He whispered, eyes closed, “I love you too, my dear Will. And you are yet to find out how much.”

He made the suggestive remark sound so very… _normal_. As if he weren’t trying to cut his head open before he went to prison. He sighed deeply. 

Hannibal broke the eye contact a second later. He looked at his belly and the ugly wound decorating it. He lifted his hand so he could lift the jumper and look how severe it actually was. 

It felt like his internal organs were on fire, there was no better description, and he was a _doctor_. 

“I trust you fully, Will. Do what you need to do, and I promise I will give your aches merited and equal attention once we reach your house in Wolf Trap.”

“You’re the doctor here, Hannibal.” 

 

Will shifted closer, groaning as he moved his injured shoulder a bit too fast. The medical kit he took at the cabin lay under his seat (for better accessibility), but now he already held it in his hands, unzipping the bag. 

They didn’t have time to perform a surgery, the FBI would have had them caught. But Will still could do his best about cleaning and bandaging the wound.

“The bullet went through, which is good, but it may be infected. And after the kicks the agent gave me—”

“I get it, Hannibal. You’d need to go to a hospital, but we can’t afford such luxury. This is all we have, so I need you to brace yourself, because this will hurt like a bitch,” Will warned him as he unscrewed the disinfectant bottle. He poured some of the cold liquid on a piece of cotton wool. 

Hannibal’s jumper was up, and they could both see the damage and all the blood. What was good was that the bullet went through. 

Will took another tuft of cotton wool and gently wiped as much blood as he could before he applied the disinfectant on and round the shot wound. Hannibal had to bend forward if Will wanted to get to his back, which was a very painful procedure, as his wincing face made so obvious.

He did not emit a sound though, even if the agent burned more than the torn inside of his abdomen. 

“I don’t need to tell you what the diagnosis is, do I?” Will was muttering more to himself than asking an actual question. He knew he didn’t. He simply wanted to fill the silence. 

“Just cover it with some plaster and I’ll be as good as new,” jested Hannibal, resting his head on the steering wheel. He sounded shaking – and nervous, as though he wanted to get it over with and move forward again. 

 

There were no sirens, no blue light, no shooting, no needs to worry. Yet – which was the reason why was the concern legitimate. 

Will understood him. He too wanted to get to a safe shelter with warm food, hot shower, ready bed… Away from all concern related to their pompous escape. Freedom ahead. 

 

Will put the used cotton to a bag with the bloody one and pulled two pieces of adhesive bandage, one for the entrance wound and one for the exit. That should be enough to keep it dry and protected and stop the bleeding. 

There still was some gauze in case it wasn’t. 

“Do you think you could hand me the bag with the clothes from the back seat, Will?” he asked, a bit undignified for having to ask such question. For being incapable of turning round and taking the goddamn bag by himself. 

“Sure,” he replied and reached for the plastic bag promptly. 

There was a clean pair of trousers, shirt, and a jacket Hannibal’s size. It might have not been his style at all, but few hours in clothes deeply under his dignity were still better than freezing in the wet ones, soaked with his blood. 

 

Will already changed his clothes when they set out. He did not think of undressing in front of Hannibal as something he should be ashamed of, something too intimate. He really didn’t wish to die of hypothermia. 

Right now, shame descended all the way to the bottom of the significance scale. It didn’t matter if they saw each other naked when it was a question of survival.

 

He helped Hannibal divest of the jumper and put on a light blue shirt. He managed to strip down the slacks and pants just fine, only the space on the seat was perhaps a bit insufficient. 

Will noticed a bruise forming on his right thigh, already large and blue. That agent he was fighting hurt him more than originally assumed. Will didn’t like it whatsoever. 

 

When Hannibal finished putting on the dry clothes, Will checked on the situation on the road. He sighted a car in the rear-view mirror. There were no warning lights shining, but Will knew the FBI often used ‘ordinary’ civil cars so as to lay low and stay undercover. They should have better moved on now.

“Hannibal, there’s someone behind us. We should go,” he whispered. His voice was noticeably tenser. 

Hannibal glanced at the mirror on his side, and his eyes confirmed a black van of sorts approaching them apace. He started the car, wordless. In his mind, he was getting ready for defence and fast, zigzag driving. 

There still were miles on the road ahead of them. 

Will tried to settle in his seat so the ride was tolerably comfortable and his shoulder didn’t hurt more than it already has. He listened to Hannibal’s and his breath and the sound of tyres moving along the roadway. 

They moved as fast as the speed limits allowed. However, the black car behind them was going nowhere. 

 

If it were up to Will, he would play some music he could hum along to and relax, but he had nothing of his own, not even a mobile. He has left all behind the moment he got in the police car with Hannibal earlier that day. 

And he regretted absolutely nothing, so far. 

 

He closed his eyes with the prospect of living a peaceful life somewhere beyond civilisation and people who would try to harm him and Hannibal, who would be there too, right by his side, occupying his mind drugged with painkillers. 

He left it all up to Hannibal. He trusted him to get them out of the mess they got into and to safety. He trusted him not to stab a knife in his heart while he takes a short nap—

“Wake up, Will. You mustn’t fall asleep.” Will’s head winced at the sound of Hannibal raising his voice. It woke him up from slumber sticking his eyelids closed. “Will!”

It was no use, despite the effort he was putting into trying to keep Will awake. His head felt so heavy, and he couldn’t hold back the fatigue crawling onto his entire body. He was so exhausted – and besides, it was night. 

So Hannibal let him take a beauty sleep and focused solely on the driving, checking up on him from time to time. 

 

When Will woke up, the trees were bathing in the first rays of morning sunlight and stars were slowly fading away, giving the orange and yellow the opportunity to seize their reign over yet another clear day. 

His chest and shoulder burnt more than before.

The car was parked, presumably in the destination of their adventurous road trip. That was good news. 

He could feel Hannibal’s hand brushing his curly hair softly enough to wake him up slowly. It felt so good and relaxing. He could have him do that for hours. 

_Wait, what was that?_

 

“Will.” The man in question turned to look at him. “Will. We’re home. Come on.”

_Wolf Trap. Home. We’ve made it. We’ve shaken the feds, or whoever it was in that car, off._

Will sat up and groaned while doing so. The stab wound required immediate care. As he unzipped his jacket and looked at it, he saw a fresh bloodstain spreading through the fabric of the t-shirt he was wearing. 

“Shit, it’s bleeding again,” he noted, rather pointlessly. They both could see that. 

He unfastened his seatbelt and opened the door. He clumsily stumbled out of the car. He straightened up and remained standing next to the car, gaping. It was three years since he has abandoned the house and went away with Molly and her son.

There were so many memories left; and suddenly appearing on his mind. He was close to tears, vividly picturing the moment Hannibal came in for the first time and brought him scrambled eggs, or the moment he hypnotised Mason Verger into eating his own face while he sat in the armchair in his living room. 

 

He wouldn’t even note the other man has gotten out of the car and shuffled to stand next to him, if he didn’t feel a sudden increase of warmth and pressure around his back, where Hannibal has put his arm – to support himself? Or to support Will?

“Come inside, Will, I don’t think I can stand for any longer,” he admitted, straightforward. If Hannibal Lecter said a sentence so disagreeing with his grandeur, he must have been almost on the verge of death. It was hours without hospital care they needed very badly after all. Hours of sitting in a car and driving. 

God knows what was going on while he was asleep. And he didn’t even want to know. 

“Good idea,” said Will, and together, they slowly walked toward the doorstep of their momentary sanctuary.


End file.
